


Inbrunst im Herzen

by ars_belli



Category: Opera Singers RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ars_belli/pseuds/ars_belli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-might-have-been night for the darling tenor of Hitler's Wagnerian operas.  "Inbrunst im Herzen, wie kein Büsser noch sie je gefühlt, sucht' ich den Weg nach Bayreuth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inbrunst im Herzen

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [胸懷激情 (Inbrunst im Herzen)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3348839) by [berthold_friedmann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/berthold_friedmann/pseuds/berthold_friedmann)



It would be kinder to leave than stay. Now, before Apollo rode his blazing chariot across the sky to extinguish the heavenly torches of the Gods. Max smiled idly, daring to let his fingers linger mere millimetres from the skin of his lover. The Aeneid hadn't sprang to his mind for months, yet now it swept naturally into his thoughts like the embrace of an old companion. Was he finally relaxing into his deception? Or was he foolish enough to think that the role he played, the never-ending role of the effortless Wagnerian tenor, the epitome of the talented, good German, was one out of which he could step, just for a night, without running afoul of the Gestapo?

The head beside him rolled easily into the depression Max had left when rising from the bed. Its owner murmured something in that voice, the sound sweet but the words beyond his comprehension. He could still flee back to his wife -- his Jewish wife, as if he didn't have enough problems to consider -- and abandon this glorious, mesmerising distraction. The breaths washing over his abdomen staccatoed, the body stirring, head tossing. Max froze. His feet rested on the floor, but his weight was still on the bed. His eyes, of course, were still entrapped by his companion. The pale skin, dark hair, those sensuous lips from which the air issued more calmly now. Just a nightmare then. Max let his own breath seep from his lungs, cautiously standing. It had been stupid of him to get into this. Neither of them had asked for it. He kept his tread light, hoping the floor would abstain from a treacherous creak. In any opera company nothing was sacred. No affairs were safe, every rumor ruthlessly fuelling the fires of gossip. In the even closer world of the Green Hill, not all careless rumors were safe either. The Festspielhaus was in the midst of a triumph and no blemish permitted to slow its rise.

Max cautiously plucked his shirt from the foot of the bed. Its occupant stirred, long limbs shifting in distress. Their elegance belied their strength. He remembered how it had felt to be pinned down and his hands tremored uncontrollably on the shirt buttons. The great Max Lorenz usually dominated in his affairs, accustomed to enthralling his lovers. But how intoxicating it had been! To have someone overwhelm him so sweetly, so effortlessly. To fight for every gasp, to have the air crushed from him, even as his fingers left bruises on the delicate skin and the pair strove for equilibrium. That memory was indelible. Leave now and he would cause his lover no more distress. Shirt done. Waistcoat done. He edged around the room, searching for his trousers. The two of them would return to rehearsal without comment, without any change in demeanour. After all, everyone had been rather inebriated the night before, drunk on success, fine humour, champagne, and surely no-one would recall anything beyond the Siegmund and Sieglinde re-enacting the end of their first act with enthusiasm, behind a sofa that had offered distinctly illusory privacy. Birgit Nilsson, of all people! Who would have thought?

The clink of his belt fastening made no impression on the slumbering figure. He glanced over once more, noting with relief the closed eyes. Those eyes had burned into him, inviting, distracting. How could he focus on hitting the right notes on the stage when that glare lurked behind the curtain, watching and noting his every move? He had striven against the feeling, of course, lost himself in the glories of Wagner's music, sang with more emotion than ever before. No-one particularly cared if the notes deviated a little from the score, not when the voice producing them was so magically intense. Except for one of his colleagues. They would never be rivals, fortunately, for the tessitura of their voices differed by octaves. He slid his evening jacket over his shoulders. So the pair had come to this instead.

His bow tie lay where it had fallen in the feverish chaos of the evening before. It rested on the edge of the bed, half-concealed by a pillow. Tantalizingly close to his lover. His treacherous fingers betrayed their master, caressing the visage that had brought him such joy. Max rested his fingertips on those bewilderingly sensuous lips one last time. He picked up his tie, sliding it under his collar, not bothering to tie it. Not trusting his hands. He never had time to step away before strong fingers clutched at his own. The eyes flickered open from sleep. The lips parted.  
"You are leaving, are you not?"  
The Gods themselves held their breath as he answered.  
"I will stay Hans, if that is what you want."

**Author's Note:**

> Neither Hotter nor Nilsson actually performed at Bayreuth until the 1950s ('52 and '54, I think), so please excuse the counterfactual timeline.


End file.
